Trigger
by Arcsaber
Summary: A speculation - I took some scant evidence and ran with it. Set post-Altivia nonesense. I might be able to take it further if people want me to...:


For the fourth time that night she removed an unmarked tape from her VCR, for the fifth time she inserted yet another unmarked tape, and for the fifth time she pressed PLAY.

This particular weekend had disappeared in her frustrated efforts to find some explanation, _any_ explanation, for the bizarre way in which she had come back (this time) from the other side. She had heard the stark facts from Astrid and Walter – appearing out of nowhere, unconscious, in the severed rear end of a yellow taxi – but, as had happened after her visit with William Bell, only snatches and fragments of her experiences Over There had survived. Given the way she had come back, and having been told that she'd been held captive, she inferred that they, whoever "they" were, hadn't let her go willingly.

Being an investigator, used to going from A to B to C, she deduced further that she had managed some hitherto-unseen display of power; she had been told by Walter that Bell had had to sacrifice his own body, and energies, to hold the "doorway" open for Walter's party when they had gone home ahead of her. Whatever she had done this time, she had done on all on her own.

So, she had crossed over, to get

(_her_)

Peter back, and away from that hideous machine. Point A. She was now at home, with her memories of rescuing him almost completely shot through. Point C. That just left Point B.

Walter had advised against digging around. He had suggested (though it was more like a warning) that her memories were inaccessible because she, herself, had locked them away. Buried them. He had implored her to let the recollections flow of their own accord, arguing that no twenty-foot flight through a windshield onto the street was responsible for their absence this time.

"Agent Dunham, given your extraordinary mental fortitude I can only surmise that you were subjected to some great trauma, or traumas, while you were held captive. I don't need to tell you that memories of such things are often repressed as a defence mechanism."

"Walter… I have to know, I _have_ to know how I did it. Something happened over there that let me kick a hole in the barrier _on my own_ and get home. It took _four_ of us to do it last time! Not to mention William Bell's life _and_ some gadget of yours to get _you _home!"

"Please, dear, _please_ – your mind is trying to protect you. _You must let it_!"

The poor man had almost been in tears, so she had humored him, sent him home to bed, and then resolved to disobey him. Her memory was, in her own words, freakishly good, and having entire weeks reduced to this ragged, gauzy tapestry was unacceptable, especially when that tapestry might hold the key to her so-called "guardianship of the gate".

Thus, she had flown back down to Jacksonville, on her own dime (no need for word of _that _little trip to get out), and ransacked the old daycare centre. She knew it required extremes of emotion to activate her abilities, and Walter had assumed fear to be the only candidate. However, she was confused by this: she could recall a couple of times she had flexed that muscle (or that muscle had flexed _her_) and had most definitely not been _afraid_. She hadn't known quite _what_ she had been feeling

(_Jesus, I feel like a teenager again!_)

(_Please, PLEASE let this work… I _need_ him back…)_

but she knew it hadn't been _fear_. Not exactly. Since Walter had summarily refused to treat with her on the subject any further, which she found both endearing and infuriating, she had decided to look for her "trigger" off the books.

She had found plenty of notes scattered around the centre but they were all but unreadable, the non-scientific portions having been written in some kind of obscuring shorthand. More useful, potentially, were these tapes. They were unlabelled, and in no apparent order, but she didn't think she had anything to lose by watching them. She had turned over every chair and table, ripped her way into every cupboard, and smashed holes in several rotten drywalls to come up with twelve of them. She had bundled them, along with some yellowed papers she had found in her old room, into her rental car and made the hateful place disappear behind her. Forever this time, she hoped.

She had arrived at home hours later, eaten sparingly, then brought her ever-faithful whisky bottle into the living room and begun the "screening". The tapes were of poor enough quality that she had had to sit on the floor, closer to the TV, but they were clear enough. The first three had been no help: they had not featured her at all, but she had seen, with pangs, the childhood versions of the three who, she now knew, had died Over There in their attempt to bring

(_you belong with me_)?

Peter back. The fourth tape, though, the one she had just taken out of the VCR, had shown little Olive being "interviewed" by Bell (or "Wellum", as he was): how was she feeling? was she in any pain? did she feel hot? cold? hungry? thirsty? They were clearly as interested then as she was now in her trigger. She, Olive, had seemed strangely content during that interview, and not the fearful, reticent child who had burnt apparently that same room to a cinder at some point hence. Olivia could hear piano music in the background. Bach, she thought. It was being played slightly haltingly, as if by some talented student, but it seemed to soothe Olive. Bell's questions returned nothing concrete, however. Onto tape number five…

It was, again, archetypal 1980's camcorder footage. The detail was low, and the picture wiggled slightly at intervals, but she could clearly see a little girl and a little boy sitting at a child-sized table. A chessboard was between them, covered by almost all the starting pieces. The boy was considering the board very carefully (he was playing black) with his chin in his hand, while the girl's eyes were fixed on the boy. She had long blonde hair, and Olivia knew it was again the Olive that was. The boy she did not recognize, but then she wouldn't recognize any of the former Cortexiphan children from their experimental days. She supposed that this was her mysterious "lab partner"; he hadn't appeared in any of the previous tapes, and Olivia knew that the "Cortixikids" had been trained in pairs. He had black or dark brown hair, the video wasn't clear enough to tell, but Olive's expression as she watched him was brazenly apparent: an unguarded mixture of longing and awe. Olivia could see that he was pale and thin. Bright sunlight was coming in through a window off-screen on the right. The shadows in the room were long; this must have been close to sunset.

There was a superimposed string of numbers in the bottom right corner of the screen, but it wasn't a date or time as far as she could tell. Looking around the scene, Olivia could see a man sitting in a cream leather armchair in the right rear corner of the room, his legs crossed easily at the knees. Walter, wearing beige slacks and a grey cardigan that made him blend in almost completely with his chair. _His dress sense survived St. Clair's_, _at least_, she thought. He had a book in one hand and was smoking a pipe with the other. She discerned a slight grin on his face, and suspected he was faking an interest in that book, before a movement drew her back to centre-stage.

The boy had moved a piece, a knight, and Olivia noticed that he was left handed. She always noticed things like this – like pegging license plates, or guesstimating a perp's height and weight, it was reflexive. Olive had dropped her eyes from him and was now considering her own pieces. Apparently she wasn't as good as the boy: he had taken both her bishops, and from the positions of the remaining pieces they were no more than ten moves into the game. After what to a child would have been long contemplation (but was actually only five seconds), Olive raised her right hand and moved it heedlessly toward one of her knights. Her fingers were a scant inch away when the boy uttered an almost inaudible

"Ah!"

Olive's hand froze in mid air, and she lifted her face. The boy made no other sound or movement that Olivia could detect, but from Olive's reaction he had gestured with his eyes, for her attention had swung to the opposite side of the board. She appeared to frown in concentration for a moment, and then uttered a comical gasp; Olivia smiled fondly. Olive immediately grabbed a pawn and nudged it one square ahead; apparently, she had just averted checkmate, or avoided some other disastrous blunder.

Walter smiled around his pipe in the corner – apparently his pupils were doing what they were supposed to be doing. The boy shot Olive a look that clearly said _concentrate on the board! - _Olivia caught a flash of bright blue from his eyes - then resumed his study. Apparently Olive had learned her lesson, as she was now using her downtime to study the board as well. Walter turned a page in his book and breathed a cloud of bright bluish smoke, totally content with the scene.

As soon as she had seen her younger self, her lab partner and Walter, she had been expecting some display of power from either herself or the boy, or both, but they weren't moving the chess pieces psychokinetically, nor were they demonstrating super-intelligence (Olive wasn't at any rate), nor anything else out of the ordinary. Clearly this was important enough for Bell and Walter to film, but why? She continued to watch the boy and Olive play. Olive was now giving every move her full attention after that near-miss, and the game seemed to be more balanced. It was mostly uneventful, with few captures and no checks.

Roughly twenty minutes into the tape Walter's stream of smoke stuttered, then stopped. He grumbled: his pipe had gone out. He reached into his left trouser pocket and withdrew a chromed Zippo. He spun the wheel, but no flame leapt from the wick. He tried twice more, with no more luck, before casting the offending lighter onto the coffee table at his left hand. Cursing (gently, obviously for the benefit of the children), he made as if to rise from his chair, probably to fetch another means of lighting the pipe, when Olive piped up, speaking for the first time:

"It's OK, uncle Walter! I'll do it!"

Walter paused, then sat down again, but didn't cross his legs immediately. Olive had turned away from the camera and was looking at him. After less than two seconds, the pipe sprung into light again, emitting a tiny yellow flare. Walter put his thumb over the end and dragged to make sure it stayed alight, then crossed his legs again, resuming his easy recline in the leather chair. Olive had already returned her attention to the chess board, so she didn't see Walter glance reflexively toward the camera with a look that could only be described as triumphant.

"Why thank you, Olive!" he chuckled, and returned to his book, now apparently free to give it more of his attention.

Olivia then realized that the pipe incident had been staged – _that_ was the experiment, not this game of chess: it was Olive's test, a test of her _control_. She had seen the damage she could do with her raw, unrefined power in the burnt room in Jacksonville, so it made sense that Walter and Bell would have tried to find some way of regulating her. Without it she would have probably incinerated friend and foe indiscriminately. These circumstances had obviously been created to both relax and focus her.

The tape didn't stop, as the others had done immediately after the desired objective had been reached; apparently nobody was manning the camera this time. Olivia continued to watch, occasionally sipping her whisky. She had just seen the most refined, controlled use of her abilities so far and was hoping that it would be explained. Besides, she suspected that this was one of probably very times she had been anything close to safe and/or happy at that goddam daycare centre, and she was rather enjoying seeing it.

The shadows lengthened, and the boy had begun to break down Olive's defence. Olivia found herself wondering what abilities _he_ had - perhaps he was a cryokinetic, a nice contrast to her own apparent ability, or maybe he really was super-intelligent – he certainly seemed to be intentionally playing the chess game below his ability. She doubted she would see the answer here - this was Olive's test, after all. It was something to look out for in the other tapes, at least.

Roughly ten minutes later, with the shadows almost blending in with the diminishing ambient light, the boy moved his queen and declared, softly, "checkmate". Apparently even at the age of roughly eight he was sensitive enough not to trounce his partner even though he obviously could have done, but that checkmate had still come out of nowhere. Olive looked up, confused but gracious. This was, then, an instructional game – Olive had taken her defeat with the aplomb of a pupil having been taught a gentle lesson. Olivia sipped her whisky again and wondered whose idea it had been for him to teach her, his or Walter's; for some reason she found herself hoping it was the boy's.

Walter shut his book decisively with a snap, uncrossed his legs and rose, walking over to Olive. He put a hand on her shoulder and, with obvious pride, said

"Well done, Olive – you're getting much better!"

Olive preened beneath this praise, and Olivia detecting, no sarcasm in it, smiled herself.

Walter, meanwhile, had walked around the back of the table and had stopped behind the boy, putting his hand on his shoulder.

"Well, I think it's time to go – your mother will be home soon, and she wouldn't be very happy if she knew I'd brought you here!" he chortled conspiratorially.

Olivia's smile simply fell off her face. Every molecule of air seemed to have left the room, taking all warmth with it. The half-full glass of whisky fell out her hand and shattered. She didn't hear it - it might as well have fallen into another galaxy. Her consciousness had contracted all the way down to that hand on the boy's shoulder. Her breathing had stopped; her face was all eyes; her skin, all of it, had erupted in gooseflesh. The missing memories were on their way, and they weren't coming in single file; she caught a fleeting impression of a colossal, yammering cloud of angry hornets in the centre of her skull, heading straight for her forehead at unthinkable speed.

She now knew – _knew_ – what was coming next on the tape, but that knowledge didn't help in the slightest:

"Come along, Peter! Say goodbye to Olive!"

Last time it had been the sound of a bell; this time it was that word: _Peter_. A few hornets sneaked through

(_you'll need him by your side…_)

(_you belong with me_/a knife-edge of panic and a clawing, desperate yearning)

(_an Englishwoman sitting opposite her, talking softly, both pairs of their hands joined_/astonishment and gratitude)

(_a picture of Peter, being held up to a pane of glass, his hand in the small of the back of a woman who looked an _awful _lot like her, her hands in his hair_/terror, and searing, rending FURY_)_

before she fainted dead away.


End file.
